Avoid giving letters of introduction to people whose acquaintance cannot possibly afford any pleasure or advantage to those whose civilities are desired for them, or who have not leisure to attend to strangers. Artists, authors, and all other persons to whom “time is money,” and whose income stops whenever their hands and eyes are unemployed, are peculiarly annoyed by the frequency of introductory letters, brought by people with whom they can feel no congeniality, and whom they never would have sought for. Among the children of genius, but few are in a situation to entertain strangers handsomely, as it is called, which means, expensively. Many are kept always in straitened circumstances, from the incessant demands on their time and attention. And in numerous instances, letters are asked and given with no better motive than the gratification of idle curiosity.
We advise all persons obtaining an introductory letter to a painter, to ascertain, before presenting it, what branch of the art he professes. We have been asked whether a certain artist (one of the most distinguished in London) painted “figures, flowers, or landscapes.” Also, no one should presume to request an introduction to an authoress, if they are ignorant whether she writes prose or verse. Not that they are expected to talk to her, immediately, on literary subjects. Far from it; but if they know nothing of her works, they deserve no letter. In America, books, or at least newspapers, are accessible to all who can read.
Bores are peculiarly addicted to asking letters of introduction, in accordance with their system of “bestowing their tediousness” upon as many people as possible. We pity the kind friends from whom these missives are required, and who have not courage to refuse, or address enough to excuse themselves plausibly from complying.
We have known instances of stupid, vulgar persons, on preparing to visit another city, obtaining letters to families of the really highest class, and receiving from them the usual civilities, which they knew not how to appreciate.
On the other hand, how pleasant it is, by means of an introductory letter, to bring together two kindred spirits, whose personal intercourse must inevitably produce mutual satisfaction, who are glad to know each other, glad to meet frequently, and grateful to the friend who has made them acquainted.
Letters of introduction should not be sealed. To do so is rude, and mean. If you wish to write on the same day to the same person, take another sheet, write as long an epistle as you please, seal it, and send it by mail.
It is best to deliver an introductory letter in person, as the lady or gentleman whose civilities have been requested in your behalf, may thus be spared the trouble of calling at your lodgings, with the risk of not finding you at home. This is very likely to happen, if you send instead of taking it yourself. If you do send it, enclose a card with your residence. Also, it is more respectful to go yourself, than to expect them to come to you.
As soon as you are shown into the parlour, send up the letter, and wait till the receiver comes to you.
When a letter is brought to you by a private hand, the usual ceremony is to defer reading it till the bringer has departed, unless he desires you to read it at once, which he will, if it is evidently a short letter. If a long one, request him to excuse you a moment while you look at the beginning, to see if your correspondent is well.
On farewell cards, it is usual to write with a pencil the letters “t. t. l.,” “to take leave”—or “p. p. c.,” “pour prendre congé.” A lady complained to us that an acquaintance of hers, about to leave town, had left a card for her with “p. d. a.” upon it. Not understanding the meaning of these letters, she had applied to a friend for explanation, who told her they meant “poor dear adieu.” “Now,” continued she—“I cannot understand why a mere acquaintance should be so familiar as to call me ‘poor dear;’ why am I a poor dear to her?” We relieved her by explaining that “pour dire adieu” was French for “to bid adieu.”